


Georges-Jacques Danton Keeps Birds

by feverbeats



Category: A Place of Greater Safety - Hilary Mantel, French Revolution RPF
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-29 19:29:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10860552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feverbeats/pseuds/feverbeats
Summary: "Why? Do you want to know why I won't sleep with you? Because of how you are. I know you'll get hurt—physically, emotionally, it doesn't matter—and I'll wind up being blamed for it."





	Georges-Jacques Danton Keeps Birds

**Author's Note:**

> I feel PERSONALLY ATTACKED by the fact that this didn't happen in the book. Also, I made [a mix about it.](https://8tracks.com/feverbeats/i-ll-be-your-candle-and-i-ll-be-your-statuette)

_Lucile_

 

The first night with Camille, with him inside her, she imagines what it would feel like to have Georges there. Not instead of Camille, of course. Camille is as essential as her lungs. But to have Georges there, too—To have his hands on her, to have him inside her too, to watch him touch Camille—that would feel safe.

She's not afraid of Camille, but she's afraid for both of them together, the way she would be afraid for children without a parent.

She dreams about Camille coming home one night with his mouth full of blood, his black eyes blackened further. She dreams about his beautiful eyes vacant, his head separated from his body.

She wakes up next to him and thinks about all of the other people who have. But he's good at slipping away at four in the morning to write, before any of his lovers could possibly be awake. For her, he waits till six sometimes, until her eyes flutter opens and the sun creeps over the horizon and through the new curtains she's bought. She hopes the others treat him all right. That's her primary concern.

"Do you love him?"

Camille asks her this one night when they're at Georges's house. Gabrielle and Georges have both gone to bed, but the two of them have had too much wine to make their way next door just yet. This might as well be home, anyway.

Lucile doesn't think the question is really fair. It's not part of the game.

"Do you?" she asks.

Camille grimaces. "Will you think I'm a disgusting pervert if I say yes?"

As if she doesn't know he's been with men. But this is still early in their marriage, and maybe Camille hasn't quite realized how level a playing field they're really on. "Will you think I'm going to leave you for someone more masculine?"

"Ha," Camille says, but she thinks it's just because he's afraid he'll stutter over real words.

"I love you," she says. "Everything else is just details."

His dark eyes lock with hers, and it takes her breath away. She's winning more and more of these exhilarating moments where she can see him realize that getting married to her hasn't changed anything. They're still twins, they're still manic creatures, and they game is only beginning.

There's a bird outside her window lately that screams the same three notes and over and over, waking her every morning when the sun is barely up.

"It's singing for the revolution," Fabre tells her, looking at her through his lorgnette in his ironic little way. Fabre knows all about songs.

The next three nights, she dreams about the bird, a blue bird with a red breast, shattered in the street.0

Lucile doesn't sleep well that week. It's not just the bird, it's something in the air. She never knows when the next blow will fall, or what she's likely to lose. One morning, red-eyed and dizzy with exhaustion, she walks to Max's house.

It's early, but he's already all dressed and put together. He lets her in--the Duplays are still sleeping--and makes tea for her.

"You look tired," he says.

"Do you ever want someone to just swoop in and fix everything?" she asks. Max is her friend, these days, and she can talk to him like this.

His face is opaque, unreadable. "Not really," he says. "In my experience, you have to fix your own problems."

"What if I can't?" She stares at her tea and doesn't drink it. "And if Camille can't?"

"Obviously Camille can't," Max says dismissively.

Lucile wonders, sometimes, what her life would be like if she'd met Maximilien before she met Camille. Maybe it wouldn't be any different, but what if, somehow, she had married him? She thinks about this sometimes. She might still be a virgin, but maybe she would feel safe. Nobody, to her knowledge, threatens Max through the mail.

She can't imagine growing old. Nor Camille. But Maximilien seems to have mastered the trick already.

He frowns. "I worry about him."

"So do I," Lucile says with feeling. "I just want someone to look after us both. I want--"

Max holds up a hand. "I know what you're going to say, and please, don't."

Of all the times for him not to be obtuse.

"It's not so bad, is it?" she asks. She's so tired. "Georges is practically family already."

"The way you and Camille both flirt--" Max shakes his head. "Please, just drink your tea."

But Georges isn't like the others, not to Camille and not to her.

That day, Camille is out. She doesn't know where. She can always feel him when he's gone, anyway. Georges has invited himself over, and the servants have made themselves scarce. It gives her a little thrill, no matter how many times Georges makes sure they're alone together. She feels like he's about to do something terrible. He keeps looking at her like he wants to tear her to pieces.

But the power rests in her hands and he knows it.

When Georges gets tired of talking about politics, which he always does long before she would, he comes and sits next to her on the sofa. He's so close. She can't stop staring at the veins in his hands.

"This is so ridiculous," he says.

"I don't know what you mean," she says. She suddenly wishes Camille were here. Just in case.

Georges reaches for her, wrapping his hand around her wrist and pulling her close. "What do you want, Lolette?"

She tries and tries to swallow. It feels like she can't breathe. Fire where his fingers touch her arm. "I can't," she says. "Not without him here." She wouldn't be able to fully capture how it felt, not well enough to relay to Camille.

To her surprise (and disappointment, a little), Georges nods. "Of course. But I suppose there's no harm in my touching your dress."

Lucile flushes. She imagines what Camille would say. "No harm," she says.

Georges runs a finger down the front of her dress, between her breasts, down the center of her stomach. She tosses her head like Camille and looks at him through her lashes.

"You have to let me have you," Georges says. "Let me, or I'll die."

 _How strange_ , Lucile thinks. _What a strange and horrible way of putting it._ Without quite understanding why, she bursts into tears.

Then Georges is holding her against him, but utterly without desire. The charge between them has gone out.

"My sweet, foolish little bird," he says.

"Georges," she says suddenly, pulling away from him, "would you ever touch Camille like this?"

Georges flushes slightly. "I'm not--" he starts.

"I didn't ask what you were," Lucile says. "I asked if you would."

"I have to go," Georges says.

_Camille_

Camille has a dream. In this dream, he is dying. His mouth is stuffed with rose petals, and he cannot breathe through them. He's bleeding from somewhere, but he's not in any pain. He's lying in a garden and the sky about him is gray and heavy with impending rain. He thinks, irrationally, that he's at the Charpentiers' house.

He's not alone, but he can't see who else is there. He feels, for once, peaceful. Something wild in him has been killed.

He wakes up before dawn. Lucile is still asleep, her tiny mouth pursed in her sleep. She's frowning. He wonders what she's dreaming. He gets up to write, but he can't clear the dream out of his head. He thinks of Georges, probably snug in bed next door, and his whole body aches to get up and go running over to beg to be held.

He thinks about that constantly. Where he can run when he needs protection. It isn't so much about times when he's in danger, it's more about when his mind is too wild. He wants to think he could call on Georges to hold him down and pull his hair and fix him on command, but he knows better. He wants to think Lucile could do it, and maybe she could, but it's his job to be strong for her. And then there's Max.

He goes to find his shoes. Max will be awake this early, if nobody else is.

"I don't understand it," Max says, in a tone that suggests he doesn't have to understand to disapprove. He waits patiently for Camille to stutter through his explanation.

"It's not about sex," Camille says. "If it were, we would have d-done it ages ago." He's soaking wet from the walk and he's dripping on Max's bare floor.

Max looks at him, pained. "Camille…"

"It's a long and beautiful game," Camille says. "I want Georges, he wants Lucile, she wants me."

"I would hope you want your wife, too." Only Max could make _want_ sound like a dirty word.

"I do," Camille says triumphantly. "So the only trick is to get Georges to want me."

Max gets up from his chair and walks to the window. He can't possibly see anything, with all that rain. "I think you should let it go."

That's it, no lecture? Amazing. Camille can hardly believe it. He comes to Max specifically for vicious chastisements. It's half the fun.

"Let it go?" He flings himself across Max's bed. _Don't let me into your bedroom if you don't want me on your bed._ "But I'm in love with him!"

"Camille!" Max snaps. "Don't."

"Go on," Camille says. "Call me a disgusting pervert."

The rain pounds on the roof. Camille thinks about Max's hand against his throat.

"Does he know?" Max asks. It's all right, they're all disgusting perverts here.

Camille rolls over and looks up at him. "Oh, Max."

Mal crosses his arms and looks down, implacable. "Don't. Whatever you're going to say, don't."

"Hold me?" Camille says. There must be something in his voice that catches on whatever it is in Max's heart that wants to project him, because Max doesn't say anything dismissive. Instead, slowly, hesitantly, he lies down next to Camille's damp body.

"Don't try anything," he says.

Camille knows better. He got over that game in school, and he was never successful, anyway. Max's arms around him are stiff and awkward, but warm. They used to do this in school, too, when they were distraught over their respective fathers.

Camille wonders, once in a while, why he and Max have never fucked. He thinks about it sometimes--a lot. About going down on Max, about Max holding his head down until he chokes on Max's dick. There are several reasons that wouldn't work, but he either doesn't know about them or doesn't care about them.

"Camille!" Max says sharply.

Camille smiles at him.

Later, at Georges's office, Fabre is sitting on the desk,, reading the newspaper. "Marat is unhinged," he says.

"That's not news," Georges says. "Where have you been, Camille?"

"Oh, with Maximilien," Camille says careless. "In bed."

Georges drops his hand to the back of Camille's neck. It feels like Mirabeau's, but bigger, and less like he'll be struck with it.

"Funny," he says. Camille imagines he can feel the rumble of Georges's voice through his hand.

"I don't know what poor Maximilien has done to deserve you," Fabre says. Fabre can be counted on for for verbal and physical abuse, as well as thoroughly comprehending Camille's feelings about Georges.

"I'm his favorite belonging," Camille says. "He said so." That's not exactly what Max said, but Camille is good at hearing what he wants. He does think Max feels proprietary about him. He was given to Max early and now they're stuck. He likes to belong to someone who'll always look after him. It makes up for Georges being so stubborn.

"I don't know anyone else who begs to be objectified the way you do," Fabre says.

"Oh, yes, objectify me," Camille says, sliding into Fabre's lap. He's still a little turned on from thinking about Max. He wants to be touched, he wants pressure--

"Camille," Georges says. "I can see that look in your eye."

"I want you to take me to bed," Camille says.

Fabre buries his face in his hands and then stops to push Camille away. He's said a number of times that Camille's honesty is embarrassing.

Georges face clouds. "For god's sake. You're saying this in front of Fabre?"

Camille gives him a look as if to say, _Yes, who else?_

"I'm sick of it," Georges says firmly. "I'm not one of your--people. You can come to my house and throw yourself at me all you want, I won't be your lover."

"Why?" Camille demands. He knows he sounds petulant, but he doesn't care.

Georges rubs his temples. "Why? Do you want to know why I won't sleep with you? Because of how you are. I know you'll get hurt—physically, emotionally, it doesn't matter—and I'll wind up being blamed for it."

"What an awful thing to say," Fabre says. "He's absolutely right, though."

"I d-don't care!" Camille says, stuttering and blushing and furious about it. "I want you to hurt me!"

He thinks for a second that Georges will hit him. Instead, he says, "All right. Fine. That's what you want? Get on your knees."

"With Fabre right there?" Camille demands, but he's already doing it.

"I have things to sign," Fabre says, laughing. "And after all, what else do the minister's secretaries do for him?"

So Camille kneels in front of Georges with Fabre watching and sucks him off, eyes open, hand on his own dick. Georges won't look at him. He keeps looking at the wall or at Fabre, which Camille thinks is even worse. Eventually, Georges finishes on Camille's face, and Camille is sobbing.

"What?" Georges demands. He looks unnerved.

"I don't know," Camille says. He just wants things to be like this all the time. It doens't occur to him until later that Georges only said yes because he had Fabre there as some sort of buffer.

Regardless, the next few months are wonderful. When Camille remembers them, he mostly thinks of Fabre holding his hand, Georges's hand in his hair, Lucile laughing in the next room.

_Georges_

Georges sometimes feels like all his life is keeping people safe. Gabrielle, Fabre, Lucile, Camille--now little Louise. As jobs go, it's fucking awful, because he's not good at it. Not the way they want him to be.

The way he wants Lucile--and all right, Camille--is still not routine. It's a physical ache every time he's in the same room as them. He finds every excuse to be alone with Lucile, to wind his hands in Camille's hair. And yes, he's touches Lucile in places a man she isn't married to shouldn't. And yes, Camille has sucked him off and spent the night in his bed. But he can pretend all that doesn't count, because Lucile hasn't let him fuck her and he hasn't let himself fuck Camille.

It's summer. Gabrielle is gone. Louise is sleeping. The whole world is on fire, so Georges goes next door. The early morning air is already stiflingly hot. Everything smells like flowers, and rain clouds hang heavy above him, waiting. He almost imagines he can smell blood, but no, that's foolish.

Lucile, tired but beautiful, lets him in. "Camille has been up writing since dawn," she tells him. She leads him into the bedroom. Camille, shirtless, is sprawling across the bed, writing. There is ink on the sheets. Georges swallows an irrational urge to drag Camille off the bed and beat him.

"Come for breakfast?" Camille asks, his tone far too aggressive for such a banal question.

"I've come for you," Georges says. He crosses to the bed and tangles his hand in Camille's hair. It feels as if the world outside the window is trembling. The rain is barely held in by the clouds, the heat is oppressive, the birds are too loud. In this room, Georges holds the fragile moment in his hand. He runs a finger down Camille's throat and lets his hand rest there.

"You mean it?" Lucile's eyes are shining dangerously, like she might cry at any moment. He can feel Camille trembling under his touch. He could close his fist and crush Camille's throat.

"Take her clothes off," Danton says.

Camille and Lucile both gasps in the same way. Then Camille goes to her and strips her, fingers shaking. He's so gentle with her. He takes such care. Danton can't imagine it. He doesn't have the restraint. Last of all, he takes the green ribbon out of her hair and tosses it aside.

"I want to see your mouth on him," Georges tells Lucile.

She flashes him a grin--Camille's grin--and gets on her knees on the floor. Camille is still kneeling on the bed. Without being told, she puts her hands behind her back. Naked, she looks just as he imagined. Her small breasts exposed in the damp early-morning air, she lets Camille opens her mouth with his fingers. Oh, they've done this before. He wondered. He sits on the edge of the bed and doesn't touch himself yet. Lucile takes Camille in her mouth and sucks him, her lips sliding over the tip of his dick.

"I want to see how much she can take," Georges says.

Camille whimpers and winds his hands in Lucile's hair. Georges carefully undoes his own trousers and watches. Camille is still being so careful.

"All right," he says. "Lolette, strip him."

She gets to her feet and kisses Camille quickly before getting rid of the rest of his clothes. They both turn to Georges, holding hands.

"Where do you want us?" Camille asks.

"On the floor," he says. He stands over them and takes his cock out.

"Oh my god," Lucile whispers.

"He's huge," Camille agrees.

"Both of you," Georges says. He feels lightheaded. Is this real? Why has he waited so long for this?

Then he can barely think, because both of them have their mouths on him. Lucile tosses her hair out of her eyes and takes his dick in her mouth. Camille ducks his head to suck George's balls. Georges gets a fist in each of their hair and doesn't hold back. He takes turns making each of them gag and gasp. Tears are running from Lucile's eyes, but she's smiling. Camille's mouth is swollen and red.

But Georges doesn't want to come like this. "Wait," he says. "Put her on the bed. Camille--"

"I'm going down on her," Camille says. "Please. I have to."

They move in tandem, and he wonders for a moment if they've planned this. Camille lays Lucile back against the pillows, and she spreads her legs for him. She keeps looking at Georges and flushing all over her body. Camilles ties his hair back with a the green ribbon Lucile discarded and bends to lick her between her legs. She makes a little growl in the back of her throat and grips the covers.

Danton comes to the head of the bed and offers her his cock. "Keep going," he suggests. Panting, she obeys.

Camille looks up long enough to moan before turning back to Lucile. Georges groans and closes his eyes. He can feel her moaning while she sucks him. He opens his eyes and watches Camille's dark, shaggy head bob. He's touching himself while he explores her with his tongue. Lucile's knuckles are white where she's gripping the covers.

Gently, Georges pulls out of Lucile's mouth. "Stay," he tells her. He climbs onto the bed and moves behind Camille. "You are going to fuck her," he tells him. "And I am going to fuck you." In his perfect world, he'd get his dick in her, but he doesn't want to hurt her, and he needs to stop being afraid of Camille.

Camille swears and nods, wriggling around until he's pinning Lucile's shoulders with his palms. "This okay?" he asks, and Georges watches the world narrow to just the two of them.

"Perfect," she says.

Georges watches Camille ease inside her, and they both moan in unison. He moves in her, and his shoulder blades are like knives. For a moment, Georges wants to destroy him. Instead, he spits on his fingers and grabs Camille's hip. It takes some work and being more gentle than he'd like, but when he gets his cock in Camille, it's worth it for the noise Camille makes, halfway between a moan and a scream.

"Yes," Lucile pants. He can see the sweat beading on her chest. "Yes, yes. Fuck him."

Camille yelps and shudders, caught between their bodies. Georges grabs a fistful of his hair and drags his head back. "Please," Camille says, stuttering so badly that he barely gets the word out. Lucile is touching herself, one hand between her legs, the other pinching her nipple. Georges can feel his orgasm building. He's lightheaded and too hot and almost sick with the feeling of these little lives in his hands.

He leans in and whispers, "I'm going to come inside you."

Camille shouts and his whole body jerks, and where his cry ends, Lucile's begins. Georges empties himself deep inside Camille, bearing down on both of them.

They roll apart after a moment, although he notices that Camille and Lucile never stop touching. They're sticky, and Camille dips his fingers between Lucile's legs before trailing them up her body. She shivers and meets George's eyes over Camille's head.

"Next time," he says. "Next time I want to be inside you."

"I wasn't sure they'd be a next time," Camille says, sounding sleepily stunned.

"No," Lucile says, "we've got him now."

Georges should get back home to Louise and the children. He has papers to go through, letters to write. For now, though, he wants to lie here in the damp gray morning light and breathe the smells of Camille and Lucile gently working toward fucking again. He pulls the sheet over himself and lets himself drift. He can't even tell their sighs apart, with his eyes shut.


End file.
